


pygmalion

by chanshine



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Artists, Crafts, Finger Sucking, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, No Dialogue, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Riding, Rough Kissing, Selfcest, Smut, YangCest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanshine/pseuds/chanshine
Summary: all art had basis, and this was no different. its likeness to the source material was almost uncanny except for the fact it was an improvement of it in every way. his gaze ran down the familiar frame and stature standing with a sense of pride beyond humanly possible, his hands caressed ivory skin uniformly smooth even down to the fingertips where the muse had several calluses, and his breath hitched as he carefully studied the silver features of the statue’s headpiece.it was his own face, cast in marble, staring right back at him with lifeless eyes. had it been it a little too self-absorbed to sculpt perfection in his own image?(or: yangyang is pygmalion, and his beloved galatea is himself.)
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Liu Yang Yang
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	pygmalion

the world is inherently flawed.

yangyang knew this from the very start. as a sculptor, as a craftsman, as an artist… it was something he knew more than anyone else. the imperfections and the blemishes of art were all so common to him, and he’s been taught how to create them as a way to make things look natural: to cover the flawless patches of painted skin with freckles and acne, to litter spotless plated food with crumbs all around it, to create little discrepancies in chiseling stone fabric. there was beauty in making art seem reachable, in teetering the boundary between ethereal and natural so as to give the beholder the most pleasing sight without it being outright otherworldly. it wasn’t so perfect it was utterly unbelievable, but it wasn’t so down to earth that it wasn’t special anymore. he’s been taught to embrace flaws as a tool in art, to find beauty in them and how they falsify attainability.

and perhaps he has, but that’s not why he’s here today.

for his own prying curiosity, he wanted to abolish the notion that his art needed to bend down to the mortal realm, that his statues needed to abide by some set of arbitrary rules to not be too beautiful. he wasn’t going to restrict his medium like that. he wasn’t going to hold himself back, to adjust to those who couldn’t deal with it, to stop down to their level and purposely taint his own creations for anyone’s satisfaction. he’d been surrounded by so many tiny imperfections that he also learned to scorn them. the flaws he had been trained to spot with a keen eye had only irked him further, pushing him to reject any previous teachings regarding this matter.

he was the master of his craft, and under his own watercolor-dipped fingers would he paint the image he so desired. he held the hammer, and he would mold his world into whatever he fancied; he held the chisel, and he would chip away whatever he abhorred.

spite fueled yangyang to create a faultless masterpiece. day and night, he poured his very soul into a rendition of something he was never allowed to achieve. countless hours were spent meticulously working on the very scourge of his passion, and it was almost funny how he had decided to ignore the readings he was all too eager in indulging himself in just a few years ago. he was a flower that had grown into what society demanded of him, and now he had shed his outer petals to blossom anew. all art had basis, and this was no different. its likeness to the source material was almost uncanny except for the fact it was an improvement of it in every way. his gaze ran down the familiar frame and stature standing with a sense of pride beyond humanly possible, his hands caressed ivory skin uniformly smooth even down to the fingertips where the muse had several calluses, and his breath hitched as he carefully studied the silver features of the statue’s headpiece.

it was his own face, cast in marble, staring right back at him with lifeless eyes. had it been it a little too self-absorbed to sculpt perfection in his own image?

perhaps it was. he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the golden sunlight peeking through the curtains traced the contours of the statue’s cheeks in a path his fingers were soon to follow. he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the image of himself frozen in time and stone was so pleasing to the eye. he couldn’t bring himself to care, when he found himself wishing to drape the finest fabrics onto the bare alabaster bodice that made an unidentifiable feeling rise up in the pit of his stomach. and so, he did.

there was nothing to hide in how he ogled his effigy counterpart, how his eyes raked over the crimson silk from how it hung loosely on narrow shoulders to how it pooled on the surface of the pedestal. the vibrant red was striking against the milky white, and soon yangyang found himself taking azure satin to test its beauty on the sculpture as well. he spent his days fawning over how the rainbow seemed to match splendidly on the statue, how each color seemed to only look better than the last. he spent his days with his pride blurring into narcissism, and while he doesn't know where exactly he draws the line between enthrallment and infatuation, he does know that the way he recreated himself in his craft was absolutely divine.

and if he spent his nights pressing his body burning with lust to the cooling surface of his visage, sliding his cock against smooth marble thighs and spreading himself out on rigid fingers, then no one needed to know.

-

the buds of spring had soon blossomed into the exuberance of summer, as did crops ripen into harvest season; the city had put up colorful decorations and small market stands as if to welcome the new season. festivals were commonplace under the blistering heat and dry air because if the biting winds of notus were to scorn them so, then why not take the hardships in stride and attempt to make the most out of it?

except, for this day, yangyang wasn't here for that. on another day, sure, he would be partaking in the reckless abandon of celebration, but he had an agenda. without sparing a second, he makes his way to the temple of the city's goddess posthaste.

aphrodite is their protector, their deity to serve and obey. she is the power that binds the citizens together with the love that flows generously from her outstretched palms, giving without ever asking to receive. today the festival is to be held in her grace, and today his offerings and prayers would be given up to her. he kneels at the altar and humbles himself at the mercy of divinity, and he prays. he prays for cool stone to melt into warm flesh, for hard alabaster to soften into supple skin. he prays for his ivory self, cast in marble and frozen in time, to be animated and alive. he prays for life to be breathed into his lifeless likeness, and he waits.

the goddess of love was sure to be intrigued by the request, and that had earned him her blessing.

the altar's flame flares up exactly thrice, shooting an impressive inferno into the still air. it ignites something in yangyang, and he mutters his thanks before he rushes out of the temple and into his abode. he slams open his mahogany doors and barely remembers to lock them lest there be unwanted interruptions. he rushes into his studio; the statue never moved. it remained still and pretty in the golden glow of the sun, but he believes and reaches out carefully to grasp at its arm.

_did the statue seem warm to the touch, or was it just the residual heat of the fleeting hemera?_

he trails one hand down to rest at the waist, another cupping the face and thumbing at a polished cheek. slowly, tentatively, he presses his lips against the other pair like how he’s done so thousands of times before.

_did the statue’s lips feel soft, or was it the cruel tricks of yangyang’s creative imagination?_

he pushes against the stone creation, tipping it off its pedestal and pinning it to the wall. despite the wanton desire coursing through his veins, he keeps himself gentle and contained.

_did the statue’s hands come up to grip at his shoulders, soft fingertips dragging over his exposed collarbone and leaving a trail of fire on his skin?_

he pulls back ever so slightly, panting, and finds himself staring into wide amber eyes then coral parted lips. he finds one hand tangled in messy, flaxen hair and another gripping on a thin, slender waist. he finds himself studying the shade of vermillion dusted across soft cheeks and down an exposed neck, and laments the lack of streaks of merlot in the shape of his mouth on the pale skin.

he finds himself staring at his statue who had come alive, just like he prayed for.

_i want to bruise him_ , yangyang thinks. it would look good on him, on himself. reds and purples would look good on the wide expanse of his unblemished skin, like his teeth were the brush and the ivory body was the canvas. he would look delectable marked with his own bites and handprints like a wonderful tapestry coming apart at the seams and leaving frayed threads of salacity in his wake. there's something almost poetic in that portrayal of himself, like a perverse sense of ruin as he falls apart to his own debauchery with little grace.

he closes the distance once more, the desperation eating away at his restraint takes away all semblance of self-control. his roughness is rewarded with a needy whine, and the sound of his own honeyed voice so unbelievably broken and wrecked sends a shiver down his spine. it occurs to him that perhaps his ivory self didn't know how to speak, so he decided to teach him first the language of tongues.

he bites at swollen lips and swallows up the elicited gasp when his tongue travels to tangle with his own. they dance lazily as yangyang basks in the sensation and his doppelganger fumbles from inexperience, hands scrambling to be grounded and knees buckling at the overwhelming feeling. they end up knocking over arrays of organized tools, but yangyang cannot bring himself to care in the slightest as he seeks to defile his counterpart further. it’s exhilarating, almost. he ends up having to scoop him up, his ivory self's lithe frame weightless as ever on the trip to the bedroom where he sets him down on the soft velvet sheets and climbs on top to cage him in place.

funnily enough, while he had spent an absurd amount of his time dressing his doppelganger in the most lavish of clothing, there was nothing more he wanted to do at the moment than rip it all off. and so, he does.

the silk hasn't even finished sliding off narrow shoulders when yangyang begins to run his hands downward to spread apart pale thighs. his fingers toy with a leaking cock, the feeling familiar in his palm which comes as no surprise considering it's his own. he doesn't dwell on that too much, though, because he's enthralled by his ivory self and how his face twists in pleasure. he's enthralled by the way eyelids flutter and cheeks flush on the copy of his face. little gasps, choked out noises, and wanton moans all fall from bitten lips and yangyang cannot stop watching himself descend into the throes of carnal ecstasy, cannot stop being the voyeur to his own ruin.

he wonders if this is how he looked those nights, palming himself to the indulgent thoughts of being exactly where he is right now. if so, then he was quite possibly the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen. would it be narcissistic to think so, and if it were, could anyone honestly blame him?

he drinks in the whining complaint his doppelganger gives him when he pulls his hand away to grab a bottle of oil on his nightstand. he shoves his fingers into his ivory self’s mouth as he stretches himself open. yangyang doesn’t miss the way lidded eyes look over his body in curiosity, nor the way a tongue swirls around his digits teasingly. he almost wishes he had a mirror, so he could see if he looked as wonderful as his doppelganger earlier or if the copy had surpassed the original. as an afterthought, it doesn’t really matter which one is better since both are still him, and both are still undoubtedly alluring. he has the eye of an artist, and that eye tells him that the he underneath him is a work of art that transcends all expectations.

he sinks down on his doppelganger, relishing the way the copy of his own cock spreads his walls and fills him up. he keeps his gaze downward, even when hips are flush against his skin and the dick brushes against his prostate. he doesn’t let himself miss a single second of his ivory self losing himself to the pleasure that threatens to bring him over the edge. he burns the display into the back of his eyelids, ingrains into his mind that this is how he looks like in moments like these. he already had the image of him swollen and tousled after rough kissing, the image of him writhing as his dick is being played with, the image of him with fingers filling up his pretty mouth, and now he would have the image of him screaming out as he reaches completion and rides out his orgasm. 

perfection was beautiful, and yangyang had just learned he was perfection.

**Author's Note:**

> i am so sorry
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/SH10NSHINE)  
> [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/SH10NSHINE)


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